


In the Wake

by lonzobean



Category: Not Another D&D Podcast (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, mild descriptions of dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28103922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonzobean/pseuds/lonzobean
Summary: As the Choo Choo Crew heads off on their next adventure, the Cleanup Crew begins their work back in Thornkirk.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	In the Wake

Since the day they’d slipped into town with three hundred crowns worth of family heirlooms hidden beneath their cloak, Syb has spent every night in Thornkirk haunting the bar at Blackthorn Hall. Even on nights when there wasn’t a fight to bet on, the company of a few pints and cigars always seemed more appealing than the oppressive silence of a dingy old flat. And when one of their feet slips ankle-deep into the mud outside the old church, they briefly consider just falling back into old habits and trudging their way back to the Hall for the night.

The revelry in the wake of the Whitlockes’ downfall had lasted late into the evening. Once the euphoria had subsided and all of the necessary goodbyes had been said, the grim work of clean-up could finally begin. The bodies of Fergus Whitlocke and several of the town guards still lay undisturbed near the old church, half-sunken into the mud. Despite the celebration in the streets, the townsfolk had all made a point to avoid the pit and the grisly, half-bloated remainders that were scattered around it.

Syb isn’t completely sure why they’d volunteered for this particular job. They’d made a few half-excuses to the other Rooks about not wanting the scale-tippers to take Fergus Whitlocke’s corpse and wring sensitive information out of it — not a bad excuse, considering that it wouldn’t be at all surprising for a bunch of Reaper freaks to do exactly that — but as they approach the enormous body lying face down in the mud, they know that that hadn’t been the entire truth.

“Okay! Which one should we start with first, Mx. Rook?” Syb winces as their companion’s shrill voice jolts them out of their contemplation. The only other person who’d volunteered to help move the bodies, much to their chagrin, was the bumbling town guard who they’d helped ambush less than seventy-two hours ago. Wilfred? Wilson? Willie? Yes, that’s the one — Willie’s demeanor seems much more akin to a boy scout heading off on an adventure than an underpaid town guard who’s about to shove some corpses into a pit.

Syb points at one of the armor-clad bodies lying on the opposite side of the pit. “Why don’t you go over there — far away from me — and toss that one in?” They jerk a thumb at Fergus. “I’ve got the big one.”

“All right!” Willie walks off toward the dead guard, humming a little tune to himself as he goes. Syb tries not to roll their eyes, then makes their way over to Fergus’s corpse. 

The body lies like a beached whale surrounded by a sea of sludge. Even though Syb knows that the man is dead as a doornail, that doesn’t stop the hair on the back of their neck from standing on end as they come to a stop beside Fergus. It hasn’t been long enough for anything to start to smell, but Syb wrinkles their nose anyway as they dispassionately plant their boot on Fergus’s ribs and give him a mighty shove forward.

One of Fergus’s arms suddenly jerks violently upward at the elbow — as if reaching out to seize some unsuspecting victim, and for a second Syb is back standing on a dirt road outside of Thornkirk, staring at a girl in a commoner’s dress who is staring back at them with wide, fearful eyes — and they leap backward and bite down a shout of surprise, skidding back into the mud as they reach blindly for one of their daggers.

They can feel their adrenaline spiking as their hand grips the handle of the knife in their boot. _Postmortem spasm, postmortem spasm, it’s just a fucking postmortem spasm,_ chants a little voice in their head that sounds suspiciously like Zirk's — after downing several glasses of port during the celebration at the former baron’s mansion, Zirk had launched into an enthusiastic explanation of the traits and features of human decomposition, much to Fia’s delight and Henry’s disgust. 

Once they’re fairly certain that the body has stopped spasming, Syb feels brave enough to take a step forward and give it another kick. As Fergus’s corpse rolls over onto its back, Syb sees that his face is contorted into a terrible snarl: the same one that had been plastered onto Fergus’s face as he’d clawed at Zirk’s throat, even with the man’s crossbow bolt lodged into his heart. At the same time, the mellow sound of Zirk’s voice in Syb’s head is replaced by the awful, choking noise that he’d made when Fergus’s hammer had cracked his ribs. They can almost feel the rain on their face again, feel their own features contort with horror as the light in the doctor’s eyes flickers for one terrifying moment.

A bitter cocktail of triumph and revulsion crawls up Syb’s throat. “Not so tough now, you fucking jerkoff,” they mutter, giving Fergus another shove toward the pit. 

By the time that Fergus’s body rolls over the lip of the hole and lands on the corpses below with a sickeningly wet thud, Willie has already managed to drag all of the other bodies in the area over and into the pit. He cheerfully tosses a shovel to Syb, and the two of them begin shoveling dirt back into the premade grave.

It’s difficult work, although Syb is almost fooled by the way that Willie chatters blithely as he digs. At first they try to avoid getting sucked into the conversation, only responding with jabs and retorts that are purely designed to urge the man to move the fuck along, but Willie eventually manages to ensnare them with some truly egregious remarks about his taste in alcohol. 

“What are you _talking_ about, port tastes like if a bunch of cherries had an aneurysm.” Syb flings a shovelful of dirt into the pit. “Drink literally anything else.”

“I thought it tasted nice!” Willie says brightly. “I’d never tried it before today, but Mister Clerk poured me a glass at the Baron’s party! It tasted like cough syrup!” 

“Why the fuck would you _like_ the taste of cough syrup?” Syb shakes their head. “You’re a broken man. Give me a shout if you’re ever at Blackthorn Hall and I’ll have someone get you an actual drink.”

At this point, Syb notices that Willie winces as he shovels another pile of earth into the hole. Although he doesn’t protest out loud, he wrings his right hand as if something were burning him. Syb glances briefly down at their own hands and realizes that, while they’d had the foresight to grab a pair of gloves from their flat before heading to the church, Willie has been digging with bare palms for nearly an hour now.

They plant their shovel in the soft dirt at the lip of the hole and wave at Willie to get his attention. “Hey, this fucking sucks. Let’s take a break.” 

They can see Willie’s grateful smile from all the way across the pit, and are rewarded with a few moments of blessed silence as their digging companion drops his shovel and spreads his hands, treating his blisters to the cool balm of the night air. Out of habit, Syb reaches into their back pocket for a cigar; their fingers close around a roll with an unfamiliar, yet recognizable shape to it.

Syb pulls out the cigar and remembers how Fia had pressed it into their hands before stepping onto the riverboat earlier that day. “It is not as good as a ruby necklace,” she’d said, smiling widely down at Syb, “But it is something nice to remember all of us by.” 

They don’t realize that they’re also smiling until they raise the cigar to their lips. They inhale deeply, tasting charcoal and the barest hint of vanilla, then exhale a winding trail of smoke up into the sky. 

“Mx. Rook?” Willie’s voice comes drifting from across the pit. “Can I come sit over there?”

Syb flicks ash off the tip of their cigar. “No,” they deadpan. “I’m slowly starting to not be actively annoyed by you, and if you come over here I’m pretty sure that’ll change real quick.”

Willie nods, not looking crestfallen in the slightest. “That makes sense! Can I ask you a question from over here, then?”

They shrug. “It’s a free town, at least now that the Whitlockes are gone. Knock yourself out.”

Willie has flopped down so that his legs are now dangling over the edge of the half-filled pit, which has the unintended benefit of allowing his voice to carry slightly better across the gap. “Do you think the people who helped out Thornkirk will be all right? Mister clerk and the others, I mean!” His face has all the open, earnest hopefulness of a loyal golden retriever waiting to hear some good news. “You were with them for most of the fight, so I thought you might have a better idea than me!” 

Syb furrows their brow. “Hang on, ‘Mister clerk’? Are you talking about Zirk, or about Henry?”

“Oh, Henry!” Willie snaps his fingers. “I forgot that was his name!”

Syb takes the cigar out of their mouth to let out a snort of laughter, instantaneously upping their assessment of Willie from irritating to tolerable. “I mean, they pretty much saved the town, didn’t they?” They slap one hand on the side of the pit. “Killed these assholes. Probably means they’ll be able to take care of themselves.”

“Right, right!” Willie nods enthusiastically. “You’re right, Mx. Rook! It’s just...” He trails off, scratching his head thoughtfully. “It’s just that, well, Mister Henry almost died! During that fight earlier today! I had to run over and save his life, and then when he woke up he called me... well, he called me little Henry?”

Willie’s voice trails off again. The two of them sit in silence for several moments, until Syb finally shakes their head. “Wow. That guy’s life is even sadder than I thought.”

“Exactly!” Willie nods his head frantically. “So I guess I’m just hoping that he’ll be okay, and that he’ll be able to find the real little Henry, eventually!”

Syb takes this all in, then heaves a sigh that is equal parts smoke and sympathy. They climb back up to their feet and Willie good-naturedly follows suit, dusting off his hands and reaching for the handle of his shovel.

During the many nights they’d spent drinking at Blackthorn Hall, Syb had always assumed that Thornkirk nights would be as silent and lifeless as the imagined solitude of their own flat. But there are clouds of sprites hovering around the streetlamps, and they can hear the sounds of the crickets in the woods and the laughter of people still celebrating in the taverns downtown. Across the pit, Willie has resumed his digging duties, and has also launched into a very one-sided conversation about the types of fish that can be found in the river.

“Hey,” Syb interjects, cutting him off mid-sentence. “I just wanted to say, sorry for… y’know, helping drug you and beat you up and stuff.” They awkwardly rest their elbows on the handle of their shovel and shrug. “You were honestly really weak and easy to take down, so I already felt a little bad in the moment, but now I know that you’re… a pretty decent person, so I kind of feel extra bad? Anyway. Sorry.”

Willie heaves another pile of dirt into the hole and then waves one hand nonchalantly in the air. “Don’t worry about it, Mx. Rook!” he replies, in the same cheerful tone as always. “You’ve already seen me fight at Blackthorn Hall, so you already know that I get beat up pretty much every day anyway!”

Syb watches as the shovelful of dirt that Willlie tossed into the pit plummets six feet down, entombing the final remains of Fergus Whitlocke and his stranglehold on the town of Thornkirk. And as they stand on the side of the pit, shovel clenched tightly in one hand and cigar clutched in the other, they consider how easily their situations could have been reversed: how easily it could have been Fergus standing here at the edge of the pit, sneering down at their body as the last memory of Syb Rook disappeared beneath the dirt. They think about the awful moment on the scale, when they’d accepted that this was how their story would unceremoniously end — and then the moment after that, when the scale hadn’t tipped, and when their newfound friends had come charging out of the crowd to help them.

Syb takes a drag on their cigar and grins at Willie. “Ever think of hiring a coach?”

**Author's Note:**

> I just really like Syb!


End file.
